


His Parts

by wren_dean



Category: His Parts, Original Work
Genre: Dissociative Identity Disorder, Gen, Horror, Mental Institutions, Murder Mystery, Original Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29279370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wren_dean/pseuds/wren_dean
Summary: A boy named Cassian who lives in a mental hospital finds himself in a murder mystery, and must work along with those hidden within himself in order to clear his name and stop these ruthless attacks.
Kudos: 4





	1. What's wrong with me?

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty short first chapter, but I've already got most of it written out, and I'll post it all in increments :)  
> CW: mental institutions, hospitals, blood/gore, murder, stabs, knives, ableism  
> FYI this is written by someone with DID and PTSD

_ Blood was roaring in his ears, an insistent pound in his chest. Thrumming wings of a bird trying to escape his ribcage… Contorting, winding, fleeing. His breath hooked in his throat, choking him, the bird’s screeching, buzzing, white noise drowning his senses. A blackness enveloped his peripheral; he slipped, and was stolen away. _

When he woke up, he knew he wasn’t alone. 

“Cass,” a familiar voice mumbled, a tall, dark shadow looming over him like a skyscraper. It was so far away. Where was he? 

“I’m here,” the voice continued.  _ Where?  _ He pressed, but his voice couldn’t leave that broken chest.

“We’re in the hospital, you know that, right?” Continued the… being. Seeing it now, it wasn’t a person. The outline of its figure was blurred, unnatural, otherworldly.  _ Stop talking _ , he thought, willing the thoughts to manifest into some kind of reality, an escape, at least a phrase.  _ I don’t know what you are. _

It replied as though reading his broken mind, “Please don’t be scared,” it choked, the distorted mumble of its voice wavering in pain.  _ A demon _ , he reasoned, a weak grin pushing across the skin of his so distant face. His nerves were stunted. Was he paralyzed? Numbed... or tranquilized?

He could almost feel the twinge of electricity as he willed his hand to move. It did, twitching, his fingers brushing against the sensitive palm of his hand. He was warm. That was a start.

_ (Is he okay?) _ A thought oozed in his mind. It wasn’t his own…  _ Shut up… Shut up… _ He yelled into his own mind, the echoes making the top of his throat twinge with angry tears.

_ Please leave me alone _ .

\--

One year later

_ Things were _ different now. Yet not at all. He often reminisced on that first night here. The same walls surrounded him: smooth, blank, save for a coat of robin-egg blue which he assumed was meant to soothe the patient.

That never seemed to work, did it?

The doctors revelled in the poking and prodding of Cassian’s brain. His diagnosis:  _ “Dissociative Identity Disorder with Post Traumatic Stress and Psychotic tendencies” _ hung over him like a deep, dark shadow. It was a rare combination, they said. A result of disaster, pain, suffering, they knew.

_ (It was almost entertaining to them.)  _ A separate, internal voice commented.

Before he could react, a soft rapping on his door interrupted his  _ (his?) _ thoughts. The ancient hinges creaked and a sickeningly familiar figure entered. The man wore a white stained lab coat over a rather messy suit-and-tie situation.

“How’s my favorite patient doing?” He grinned, his teeth nearly as yellow as his pale skin. This is what he did. Played buddy-buddy, a pretty pathetic attempt to manipulate him into friendship, especially from a so-called clinical psychologist. 

Cassian didn’t respond. He could almost see the wiry hairs on the back of the doctor’s graying head bristle in anger. The man opened his mouth to talk, but without warning a blackness bled over his peripheral, and he was gone.

\--

_ When he came to _ , it was night. There were no clocks in his room, but he could tell by the position of the moon outside his window that it was past midnight. He leaned closer from the position on his bed. 

The moon had basked the city below him in silvery light. Her beams illuminated the tones of gray outside. It had clearly snowed earlier, as the frozen sludge was piled up on the curbs and sidewalks. The city looked cold and dark, even with the warm lamp lights flickering above. As much as this painting was a dreary one, it made his heart ache and his stomach churn with resentment. 

_ (You should eat dinner.) _

Yes, he decided. Along with the anger boiling in his stomach, there was the pain of someone who hadn’t eaten in far too long.

Whoever took over didn’t do a good job of that.

Cassian flipped himself upside down, squinting his eyes against the dark underneath his bed. No monsters. He proceeded to slide off his bed, slipped his socks on and padded to the door. It creaked once more, the squeal making him tense up.  _ If somebody hears I’ll be in trouble _ . 

No, that wasn’t true. He shook himself off. Things weren’t like that anymore, at least, not in that way.

Technically, patients weren’t allowed out of their rooms past 10 o’clock. But the head specialist had convinced the nurses to give him special privileges. If you could call them that in a place like this.

His footsteps were near-silent as he made his way down the winding hallway. 

_ (Tip, tap, tip, tap) _

He was nearing the large double-doors when he heard a shout from a nearby room. Cassian wasn’t the type to poke around where he wasn’t needed. Screams were common in a place like this. 

Though it was odd, he thought the rooms were soundproof?

An insistent nagging at the back of his skull, at the very top of his spine, urged him against his instincts. He felt an unnatural energy welling up in his chest, and then his legs were moving, eyes searching for the source of it.

_ No _ , he told himself firmly, balling his fists. 

_ (Yes.)  _ the separate internal voice rebelled. 

He was soon led to a patient’s room, light emanating from the cracked door. He willed himself to turn back, noting the again painful grumble of his stomach.

But it was no use. He could feel himself being detached from this body, like a glued arts-and-crafts project peeling off paper.

Most times, his vision went out. But this time, he could see his own hand reaching towards the door. He-- or whoever it was-- leaned inside, and what they both witnessed nearly made him pass out.

The floor was  _ covered  _ in crimson blood, trailing from a silhouetted lump in the middle of the room. It was dark, he wasn’t sure he  _ wanted _ to see more, but the Other had flipped the lights on before he could stop it. 

Bile rose up from his stomach, the taste filling his suddenly dry mouth. The figure was a human body. It was covered in various gashes and stabs, probably from some kind of knife. The oddest part was… it had an IV attached to its hand, the plastic tube trailing off to nothing. Almost like it was taken from the medical wing. Ripped right from a hospital bed.

_ (This isn’t good.) _

In the time it took for his adrenalin to kick in, he was sprinting down the hallway.  _ This wasn’t good. _ He saw many things here, things any sane person would call unsanitary, inhumane, even cruel. But this… this was  _ murder _ .

He swung the door to his room open, slamming it behind him. It suddenly didn’t matter how much noise he made. Between the blood racing through his body, pounding in his ears, and the quick breaths escaping his chest, he felt himself getting dizzy. The familiar blackness enveloped his vision, but this time he saw himself falling toward the cold linoleum floor. 


	2. What have I done?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The control Cassian has over his body and the internal conflict that ensues makes him question his true reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mental institutions, hospitals, blood/gore, murder, stabs, knives, ableism  
> In this chapter specifically, there's a very light spider mention, as well as a metaphorical bird being harmed. This also may be triggering to those with claustrophobia/agoraphobia. So warning for that. Hope you enjoy!

A sharp, throbbing pain greeted him from the cold nothingness he had sunk into. He was back in the medical wing, he decided, noting the metal-framed bed and beeping machines surrounding him. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

But it was the first time he had such a… bizarre feeling, like a metal ball had been dropped into the pit of his gut. It twisted his organs around, contorting them to the beat of some terrible dread. When he saw the IV snaking from a spot on his arm, he knew.

_ That wasn’t a nightmare. _

The realization hit him like that same metal ball being swung, striking him full-force. He sat up straight in the bed as panic rose across his entire body.  _ Someone died here… Not just died, was murdered.  _ The doctor-- his same “specialist” from earlier-- noticed his sudden movement and turned from his place in the corner of the room. 

“Oh, Cassian…” He grinned. Those same teeth, the same wiry gray hairs. “You’re awake, great,” he reached forward and peeled the tape to detach his IV. “You hit your head very hard, we found you in your room…” He looked up at Cassian, his cold gray eyes piercing. “You were catatonic. Was it another episode?” A question many concerned people would ask. But he knew the doctor _didn’t_ _care_. He just wanted to scribble it down in his notebook, find new diagnoses for him to fit.

“I saw something.” He mumbled, the words scraping his dry throat. The doctor raised his eyebrows. “Someone in their room… They were dead,” he choked out, the words struggling to come to his panicked mind. He wasn’t sure if there was a purpose to telling the doctor, but it seemed like something he  _ should _ care about.

The doctor just smiled, his lips flattening out into a thin line as he shook his head. “You were mumbling the same thing when we brought you in here. We checked every room, nobody was there,” He spoke softly, an artificial blanket of sympathy coating his tone; He had the prickling sensation it was hiding something.

“But I  _ saw _ it,” Cassian urged, to no avail. The doctor just sighed, standing up and rubbing his temples. 

“We’re going to have to change your antipsychotics,” He mumbled, halfway to himself. Familiar anger boiled up inside of him.  _ Why doesn’t he believe me!? _

_ (He’s hiding something.) _

For once, he agreed with the Other. Something wasn’t adding up here. He remembered, they both saw it. He didn’t want to go, but the Other made him, and when he turned on the light…

Bile rose up in his throat just to think back on it. If that… scene… was anything, it was real. Horrifying, nauseating, unthinkable, petrifying, before any of that, it was  _ real _ . 

\--

It was the same day, and the horrifying events from last night played repeating in his mind like a broken record. He had been dropping in and out of reality ever since, losing minutes to hours of time at once.

_ The body. A lifeless corpse. It was dead. The gashes penetrating its rubbery skin. Likely bled out to death. On the cold, hard, linoleum floor. _

The ring of a bell interrupted his disturbing thoughts. It must be time for lunch. 

He picked himself up off the floor where he sat. He pushed all of his body weight against the metal door to the hallway, where he made his way to the cafeteria, making sure to avoid the other patients. That same sickening, twisting dreadful feeling filled his gut as he walked past the room from last night. It was closed, and eerily, the small glass window at the top was covered with a few lines of duct tape. 

_ (It wasn’t like that last night, was it?)  _ No, he didn’t think it was. Cassian was one to pick up on details, from the smallest crack in the floor, to a miniature spider dangling from a window curtain.

_ I know it happened. I wasn’t seeing things. _ The covered window only confirmed that. Something was going on, and whatever it was, it was not good.

He tried his best to shake off the feeling as he made his way inside the cafeteria and grabbed a tray of food. He was deep in an internal conversation when an unusual announcement blared through the speakers.

“ _ All B-wing patients and doctors are to report to their rooms immediately _ ,” A female voice blared through the static of the speaker.

_ Huh?  _ Cassian frowned, a confused panic rising up in him as the room began to bustle with movement. 

_ (We didn’t even have time to eat.)  _ He looked down at his tray, his food near untouched. 

If just to avoid being ridiculed by a nurse, he pushed himself up and followed the crowd back out. As he entered the hallway, he understood now. A stench drifted across the area, one that made him immediately gag. It was a rotting, sickly smell, and buried somewhere within his animal instincts, he knew what it was.

A dead body.

The panic of the rushing crowd seemed like an under-reaction now. The same panic-stricken adrenaline coursed through him, and he began to push his way through the herd of people. The clashing of the bodies around him disoriented him. The warmth was so unnatural, so unknown, so terrifying.  _ Just let me be in my room. Let me be… _

A hand grasped around his shoulder. He whipped around. It was a nurse, her lips were pursed with effort. She squeezed his shoulder, dragging him away from the crowd. 

“What the hell!? Let go of me, lady!” The Other took over, yelling in defiance. A few patients turned to look, but continued to rush along. Another nurse, this one male, came from behind and grabbed Cassian by his arm.

Neither of them spoke as he was led down a separate hallway. The Other urged his muscles to fight back, to hit, to kick, but Cassian wasn’t like that. He resisted, his attempts not futile this time, and was compliant as they strapped him into a tight white jacket.

Despite this, it wasn’t long before that familiar detachment began to drag him from his body, and the control that he had over it. 

His vision remained as the Other began to spit retorts at the nurses. As much as Cassian disagreed, he couldn’t say it wasn’t warranted. They hadn’t said a single word. No explanation or reasoning for why they were doing this.

That was until the specialist entered the room. His grin was gone, replaced with a tight frown, and his eyes narrowed with skepticism. 

“Nothing to hide today, huh, sir?” The Other spoke, a terrified smirk pushing across our face. It was true: there was no grin, no sickly sweet words, and even his hair wasn’t styled the same. But why?

“Cassian, we have reason to believe that you-- or one of your… personalities-- have done something worrisome.” He spoke matter of factly as he pushed his glasses up on his face. He felt himself regaining control of the body once again. Cassian didn’t speak, his face was stricken as pale as the walls.

“The body that you found. When did you find it?” The doctor spoke slowly, eyeing him carefully.

“The body…?” he mumbled.  _ (I thought  _ you _ said that wasn’t real!?) _

A moment of silence, and he replied. “I… It was around midnight.” He swallowed thickly, fear rising up inside of him.  _ What does he want? _ The doctor scribbled in a small notepad he had taken from underneath his coat.

The doctor continued, “And you told your therapist that you lost about six hours of time before then, correct?” 

Cassian just nodded slightly, trying to wrap his head around the intent of his questions. It was hard to concentrate with the fabric constricting his lungs.

Worry lined the doctor’s face as he frowned slightly. “Alright, then,” he pushed himself up and stepped away to have a hushed conversation with one of the nurses.

Like the recoil from being punched in the head, he felt himself lag behind his body, heart pumping roaring blood through his ears.  _ Does he think that I…?  _ The word didn’t come to his head. He resisted the thought, but as more seconds passed, it was blaring in his mind.

_ (HE THINKS ONE OF US KILLED SOMEONE.) _

Oh god. One of his personalities-- the other people that lived in his head-- there’s no way they… Fear, panic, horror filled him at once.  _ I’m a psycho, is that it? I’m like the murderer in one of those horror films…  _ The panic left him fumbling for control, but the familiar detachment was already beginning.  _ No, I have to tell him what I saw… There was no way I could’ve--  _

The straitjacket was choking him now, his ever-winged chest being squeezed by the deadly fabric. Like two pairs of hands wrapping around the bird, applying enough pressure until… 

With a pop, the bird’s head caved in, the remains landing on the floor underneath him. He was gone.


End file.
